


Breathing Properly

by Kawaiicoyote



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-07
Updated: 2012-06-07
Packaged: 2017-11-07 03:43:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/426572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kawaiicoyote/pseuds/Kawaiicoyote
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which John can no longer ignore how alone he is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breathing Properly

**Author's Note:**

> Hi all, I just wanted to state that this is my first time writing for the Sherlock fandom. I just hope I was able to do it a little bit of justice.

It’s raining again. John has gotten used to the dreary drizzle that’s plagued the city for weeks. He’s taken to ignoring it. Just as he’s taken to ignoring everything else, as if nothing exits anymore.

He ignores the scarves and coat that hang on the hook of the now empty bedroom.

He ignores the dismembered body parts that are still in the refrigerator.

He ignores the way he’s had to start walking with the aluminum cane because his limp has returned with all its might and threatens to send him tumbling with every step he takes without its aid.

John ignores the trembling in his hand that has come back full force. Ignores how he cannot hold onto even a pencil anymore or how he can no longer keep his hand still for more than a few minutes at a time.

Overall John ignores that he is now alone.

He sits at the kitchen table, staring at his now cold cup of tea. He tries not to look at the other cup he’d set out for someone who would never pick it up again.

It’s then sitting alone, with not even Mrs. Hudson around, with the assortment of medical equipment strewn about, and that _cup_ sitting there mocking him does something within himself snap.

The next moment the cup, _his cup_ , is shattering against the wall. The pristine china explodes against the plaster, cold murky tea and broken bits fall to the floor.

He stands from his place at the table, fully intending to clean up the result of his outburst when his eye catches sight of the aluminum cane. It mocks him almost a loudly as the cup had, another one of many reminders that keep piling up.

It’s cold against his trembling palm, the cold metal bites into his skin as he grips it white knuckled. And then he’s swinging with all his might. It connects with the glass vials and microscope on the table. It all shatters as he keeps swinging. Glass flies around him, it falls to the ground in a sparkling chaos.

He flings the cane away in a flourish, only to have his knee give out from under him. John crumples to the floor, his palms and knees sliding into the broken glass but he can hardly feel it.

He wasn’t aware that he’d been yelling and screaming until he feels the hoarse burn in his throat. Hasn’t realized he’s been crying until he finds his vision is blurred and there’s wetness streaking down his cheeks.

He is alone.

It is something he can no longer ignore.

He is alone and his best friend is dead and he just can’t ignore it like he thought he could.

He can’t push through the memories, the flash backs, the laughs, the petty arguments. He can’t breathe properly when it feels as if the other half of his soul is lying six feet under in the cold dirt. The thought alone has his throat constricting and eyes welling up with hot tears.

John isn’t sure how long he sits on the floor. He doesn’t want to even bother getting up or move from the spot on the floor. If anything he hopes that it will take pity on him and open wide to swallow him whole.

The sound of glass crunching under foot draws him from his trancelike state and has him looking up directly into the face of a ghost. The ghost of the one who just the thought of made him result in hysterics, standing before him with the same mischievous glint within the same calculating aquamarine eyes.

The ghost purses his lips as his gaze sweeps across the room and the lands back on John, whether he’s amused or not John cannot be certain.

“I never would have pegged you for such over dramatics,” Sherlock says as he unwraps a scarf from his neck with a sigh. “Have you any idea where you last placed the broom?”

John stares at him dumbfounded from where he’s still sniveling on the floor, his confusion clearly writing on his face as he drinks in the sight of the other man standing before him.

Sherlock’s expression softens for a moment before he claps his hands together, eyes glinting. “I will explain all in good time, but I do think it would be best to tidy up the glass and chemicals you’ve splashed about the kitchen.”

John is nodding in agreement but stops when an all too familiar hand is looming in front of him to help him up. He stares at it for a moment but then he grasps it, not even realizing that his own hand is free of tremors.

There are so many questions lurking in his head, there is anger, hurt, and confusion in his heart. Sherlock knows this just as well as he does. But for now John pushes it all down and begin to help clean up.

He finally feels as though he can take a proper breath again.

 

 

 


End file.
